The Twisted Ones

Vin Packer

• Publisher: Prologue Books
• Year: 2011
• ISBN:
  9781440537004
• Topic: Littérature
• Subtopic: Littérature policière et sur le mystère

WHY DID THEY KILL? These were nice kids, model kids. They didn't wear leather jackets and roam the streets in "wolf packs"; they didn't steal and mug for dope. For kids, they were well mannered and quiet. They were attractive and nicely dressed. You'd have welcomed them as next-door neighbors.
Yet...
one raped
one murdered
one killed by fire
What got into them?
What dark thoughts tormented them when they were alone at night?

PART ONE

Chapter One

BROCK BROWN

It was perfect. They were both watching him. Dr. Mannerheim from the window of his classroom on the third floor, and Carrie Bates from the rear of the school parking lot. Brock could see her out of the corner of his eye as he turned his key in the ignition. She was leaning against Derby Wylie’s old Ford. She was laughing too loudly, with her shining black hair spilling to her shoulders, and the front of her shaking under one of those long, heavy-knit sweaters all the girls at High wore this year. Brock pressed in his radio “On” button and waited for it to warm up. He did not look up at the window where Mannerheim stood smoking his pipe, but he could feel Mannerheim’s eyes on him. Okay, head-shrinker, he thought, make something out of this scene.

One of the boys was giving Carrie a light. To the right of the group assembled there, a couple was doing the fish. She began singing—not words but “Oooh, ew, ew, beedely ah dop ew,” coming on that way, and clapping her hands in rhythm. Moving like she did. Supposed to be sexy or something.

When his radio was tuned in, Brock turned it way up. “Send Me Crazy,” blared. Brock waited a second. He could see the shadow of Mannerheim’s figure above him, without looking up at him, and he knew Carrie was only pretending to ignore him. She was snapping her fingers now and Derby Wylie was shouting “Go” with her beat.

Then Brock stepped on the gas pedal and pressed the horn. He backed out so fast that his wheels squealed when he stopped to shift, and when he went forward, the gravel spun and nicked the fenders of his Chevy. A cloud of smoke poured from his exhaust, and he went down the drive like hell. He looked in the rear view mirror. He could see the figure of Mannerheim vaguely, but he would have to adjust it to see her. He was too cool to play it that dumb, to let either one of them see him fixing the mirror, so he just drove on, imagining the picture they both got of him leaving school that afternoon. Sunglasses. Top down. Music playing. Going like crazy … Brock Brown, boy cat, all shook up.

He was a tall boy with a good build, and a better wardrobe than most guys in the junior class at Sykes High, thanks to his stepmother. He had a handsome face with big dark eyes that were both quiet and wild in their expression. His hair was black and thick, and he liked to wear it cropped close on top, with slight sideburns to the tips of his ears. He dressed meticulously, with a rigid sense of style that he had formulated over the years. Dark against light—that was the core of it; never more than two colors at a time, even in his socks. Today he had on a navy blue flannel shirt and navy trousers, with a white belt, a white nylon zipper-jacket, white wool socks, and white shoes with white rubber heels. It had not been easy to find the shoes. Most of the doeskins had red rubber heels. Brock had searched and searched, and finally he had convinced his stepmother to drive him to Syracuse, twenty-six miles away, and there he had found the kind he wanted.

Brock had not made a fraternity. Carrie Bates was in a sorority; in fact, she was president of the Tri Gams. That was one of the reasons it was hard for him to come on with her. She was always on—with anyone. Every time Brock saw her, Carrie was walking with some guy, grinning up at him with her eyes sparkling; or standing by his locker, touching his sweater with her fingers, or touching his wrist, or a book he was carrying. She had very long nails that tapered to a point, and were always painted the color of blood. Afternoons at Murray’s Luncheonette, where the crowd hung out, the table where Carrie always sat—the one right up front by the jukebox—was always surrounded. It was like she held court there or something, Brock decided. Maybe he really hated her. Maybe he couldn’t stand her or something.

He was torn between two impulses as he drove away from Sykes High on Grant Avenue. One was to head toward Murray’s. The other to go on home. He knew that if he went to Murray’s, he’d only sit up at the fountain by himself nursing a coke and smoking a cigarette, pretending he wasn’t interested in one damn thing going on in the crummy place. After awhile she’d come in with Derby Wylie and the others, and the minute she did, he’d make a point of crushing out his cigarette very emphatically, tossing a dime on the counter, and striding out past her without so much as a glance at her. That was one way of handling it….

Another way was to wait until she sat down at the table. Then he’d get off the stool, walk over to the jukebox, and play H-9. It was classical—the only one on the whole goddam machine that was, and that ought to tell her something about what he thought of her. She was all rock ‘n’ roll and do the fish and come on with anyone in pants, and that ought to shake her up. Then he’d walk back to the counter, take a swallow of coke until he caught her eye, and just when he did, he’d let his mouth tip in a vague, sardonic grin, pull up the collar on his white nylon zipper-jacket, and exit—bang, crazy!

Why the hell hadn’t he tuned in on something classical before he’d cut out back at the school parking lot! Why hadn’t he thought of that? There ought to be something high class on the goddam radio. He began to push the buttons in to try and find something. When he couldn’t, he turned the car radio down, and slowed up. He decided on the lazier impulse—to go on home.

• • •

Dr. Mannerheim was a smart cat. Brock wondered what Mannerheim thought of him. Brock was flunking his course, but hell, he knew the stuff! He knew what Mannerheim was driving at. Psychology was very damn fascinating, but learning it for Brock was like trying to remember a name, or a familiar face, or something that had happened a long time ago. It was there, but Brock couldn’t get at it. It was like trying to remember last night’s dream. There was that peculiar sensation that you’d participated in something, felt something, said and listened to something, but what was it? It was crazy and evasive, that’s all.

The whole hour Brock sat in Mannerheim’s class, he had the feeling that in just a second the goddam clouds would part, and he’d see everything as clearly as day, and then he’d know—know everything Mannerheim was trying to get across; but it never quite happened. Why was that?

Sometimes Brock had the idea that Mannerheim was talking only to Brock during the hour; that Mannerheim was trying his best to get something across to Brock. Whenever that happened, Brock would smile and nod, or purse his lips and frown solemnly, as though the message was clear and he understood it. To impress Mannerheim, Brock often checked out very pedantic books on psychology from the school library. After class he’d take one of them up to Mannerheim’s desk and point to a sentence.

“I wonder if you could clarify this, sir,” he would say.

He was very careful to say “sir,” and to be sure his hands were scrubbed clean. They were rarely dirty, but on days when he would do this, he would scrub them until they were red just before his psych hour.

Once Mannerheim said to Brock, “I didn’t know you were so interested in psychology.”

“Yes, sir, I am,” said Brock.

“Don’t you think you ought to master the assigned textbook before you do outside reading?” Mannerheim said.

That had really cut.

Brock wouldn’t look at Mannerheim for about five days after that. Then he forgave him. He didn’t exactly forgive him. He simply decided Mannerheim was right. If Mannerheim didn’t know how to spot a phony by now, what kind of a head-shrinker was he, for Christ’s sake? The experience made Brock respect Mannerheim more.

One day Brock...